Clothing

I was a huge dork in an Izod sweater for most of my tenure at KJH, until ninth grade when I became a huge dork in a fluorescent pink Guess sweatshirt.  I thought that sweatshirt was the coolest thing ever.  I also had a very cool pair of pegleg Guess jeans that my mom bought for me when I didn't make a ballet production that all my friends made.  I'm sure you've heard the story.  I had heard about an audition for The Monkey King.  I told all my ballet friends about the audition and my mom drove us all to Salt Lake to try out.  In one of the sections, we had to act like monkeys.  I was convinced that my monkey movements were highly creative, even cutting-edge.  I thought I was in.  Indeed, I made all three cuts!  I started envisioning rehearsals, costume fittings, opening night...And then the judges called just two girls' numbers.  I still remember the moment the judge called the two numbers of the condemned girls.  I thought they wanted to see me do the combination again, since my monkey choreography had been so avant-garde, so inspiring.  I gracefully trotted to the front of the studio and stood in fifth position, ready for the judges to cue the music.  One judge said, "Thank you."  I didn't move anything but my eyeballs, still ready to dance.  I didn't get it.  The judge said, "Thank you.  You are excused."  I finally, slowly hung my head in shame and walked out, humiliated.  The ride home in the car with my friends, all of whom made it, was excruciating.

Now I realize that it was probably even more painful for my mom.  She was so sad for me, she would have done anything to make me feel better.  Her love language was shopping for clothes, so we went to Nordstrom and I chose the very coolest tan Guess jeans with zippers at the bottom.  For as long as I had those pants, they reminded me that my mom felt my pain, mourned my failures, shared my triumph and celebrated my joy.  She was enthusiastic about every stage of my development, from my pink-and-green plaid pantsuit in first grade to the 1984 fluorescent craze to the day we went together to choose my wedding dress.  Granted, she disapproves of some of my wardrobe choices, but the disapproval comes in the form of a new, better thing to wear.  How can I complain about that?

Mom, thanks for clothing me with not only fashionable duds, but layer upon layer of love.  Happy birthday!